


Wisdom Prevails

by Ardruna



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Imprisonment, Present Tense, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardruna/pseuds/Ardruna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of Maedhros, Nerdanel is the one who is taken prisoner in Angband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisdom Prevails

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What If It Hadn't Been Maedhros?](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/118171) by Absynthe. 



> 0\. So, after seeing a series of drabbles where, instead of Maedhros being imprisoned, his brothers are instead, I took it upon myself to write one where _Nerdanel_ is the prisoner. This is the result.  
>  1\. Um, lots of nasty stuff in here, readers: blood and torture and all kinds of ick. Don't say you weren't warned.

When she announces her intentions, the cry is deafening, insisting that she couldn't possibly go. But a single calm gesture quiets them.

"I must. Wisdom and a cool head must prevail where bloodshed has not," she says gently, "Besides. It is a mother's duty to protect her children." There is a sadness in those words, at her failure to protect her youngest, dead before he could even set foot upon the shores of this new land. Nerdanel has already lost one son, as well as her husband. She cannot bear to lose another member of her family. In the end, her sons are unable to argue with her, and she goes.

When the morning comes, she walks out quietly, willingly, head held high, the red light of the sun making her hair the color of blood. This does not mean that the Orcs do not handle her roughly when they take her into custody, and it takes every bit of willpower her surviving sons can muster to not break ranks and attack for the way she is treated. Such loyal boys. But Nerdanel does not complain. This is the kindest treatment she will receive from the Enemy.

She knows. She has already seen visions, dark and grim, of what awaits her in Angband.

Morgoth seems far too amused by his new prize. "Nerdanel the Wise!" he exclaims, "but what wisdom is there in walking so willingly into your own destruction?" But she does not quaver before him. She only kneels because she is forced to do so. She meets his fiery eyes with a calm defiance, her own gaze like steel. This is not the first time she has been face-to-face with him. How many times did she dismiss him from her own doorstep when he came around, seeking the attentions of her husband? Not much has changed, she reflects idly.

"I do not ask for the Silmarils for myself. I have no desire for them. I ask for them for the sake of my children. That we might all put an end to this nonsense," she says, "I have no desire to see any further bloodshed, be it yours or ours".

Morgoth laughs. "You must know that your pleas, however heartfelt, are futile. Take her away! And to think they call you wise." And so she is dragged away to the bowels of the fortress, dark and dank and reeking. She knows she is to become the new plaything for his followers, theirs to do with as they please. She steels herself, preparing to endure for what lies before her. At first, they seem to delight in bloodletting, making her see as much of her own blood shed as possible, a mockery of her stated wishes. Her body is strong with muscle earned from years of working with stone and steel, but they cut strips of her flesh, peeling away layers of skin and muscle. Sometimes they eat them, raw and bloody, right in front of her. Sometimes, they try and force them down _her_ throat, still warm from her own heat and blood. In the absence of food and water, she has no other sustenance, and so she must eat of her own body or starve. She does her best not to gag, even as her own blood runs thickly down her chin. They brand her with hot irons, burning the bottoms of her feet so it is too painful to run. They beat her bloody, breaking her legs, her ribs, her arms. They pull at her hair, so rare and prized among the Noldor, ripping entire clumps from her scalp until it bleeds. She is clapped in chains and dragged through muck and waste, and afterward, they smear her open wounds with filth, and some of them fester and ooze painfully. She is violated in ways that make her feel as filthy on the inside as her unwashed body is on the outside. Sometimes, they drag her, chained and collared, to the throne of their dark master, and he demands visions from her, about her people, about her children. She tells him nothing, and in his wrath, the brutality she suffers is worse than ever. They even threaten to take her eyes and tongue if she will not see and speak for them. Rough fingers claw at both, but she is lucky to not be entirely robbed of either, though her sight is dimmed, her voice almost silenced. Mercifully, they do not harm her hands. She is not certain why. Even with her skills, her desperate attempts to understand their minds and intentions, she gets no answers here. Perhaps they presume that, as a woman, there is little she can do to harm them with bare hands. They are wrong, of course, but she does not wish to prove them so. Not yet. And so she remains their all-too-calm prisoner.

Days turn to weeks, to months, to _years,_ and still, despite what they put her through, she does not break as Morgoth hopes. He thinks her a weaker version of Fëanáro. But she is not weak. She is more patient, but she is just as firm of will as her husband was in life. She can outlast them, far longer than any realize, she suspects. But Morgoth grows impatient. Waiting for her to break. Waiting for her sons to try and mount a rescue for their beloved mother. Neither happens. Finally, she is pulled from her cells, taken high up onto the cliff, and now does she feel the first pain in her hands as she is suspended by the wrist thousands of feet above the ground, the bolts of her cuff borne deeply into the rock. And they leave her there, exposed.

But she is patient. She is an artist, and though they have given her no tools, she still has her hands, so used to working with stone. This. This will be her greatest work yet. She twists and twists, ignoring the bite of steel in her wrist, letting the blood make her arm slippery enough that she can turn to face the wall of the cliff. And she begins to work using what few tools she can. She scratches with nails, bites with teeth, scrabbles with toes, trying to force the mountain to submit to her vision, even withered and weakened as she is. Her time spent trying to understand her captors was not fruitless, and she will record what she has learned among them. She rubs secrets into the stone, wisdom that rain and wind try to wear away, washing away the blood that paints the rock, but she does not give up, not even long after skin has split and nails tear away, when fingers and toes are worn to the bone, mangled and nearly useless, and teeth to little more than raw nubs barely sticking out from exposed gums, her lips and the tip of her nose and even the tips of her breasts torn away by the roughness. She does not mind. She was never among the fairest of her people. She will bear and nurse no more children. Her hair remains, flapping like a scarlet banner in the howling winds.

Eventually, someone does come. She cannot see the face, and the voice is difficult to hear above the wind and the flapping of great wings and the shrieks of the great bird, and it is distorted with rage and tears. Still, it tries to speak comfort. Apologizes. Tries vainly to pull her shackle from the rock, and apologizes more. Soon, the voice behind her is unintelligible with sorrow, and she sees brightness reflected on the rock before she feels a new bite of steel in a wrist long gone numb and bloodless.

But even now, she is fierce. She points to what she has left behind, makes him read it, even as strong arms cradle her against a long body and a curtain of red hair falls over her.

 _Learn this. And use it wisely._ She insists. It is the last bit of advice she can give before she finally submits to the darkness.


End file.
